CHAPTER FOUR

 

To have and to hold? Until death do us part?

Over my dead body.

Or should that be his?

The only thing he’ll be holding is his balls by the time I’m done with him.

 

BECK

I’m tipsy. Probably wasn’t the smartest move, pre-drinking this situation, but it was something to do while I mentally ran through the conversation we’d have.

I’d tell him we’d most likely need a divorce, not an annulment. I’d reassure him that I didn’t want anything from him. And he’d be ready, willing, and more than eager to go along with it. It’s all a formality at this point.

A formality. Because this isn’t real. And seeing him again, freaking out over it, makes me realize how much I need to put it behind me. Can’t believe I waited this long to deal with it. “We’ll probably have to involve a lawyer. If they can’t void it, at least they’ll be able to help us to divorce.”

“Hmmm.”

He’s looking at me like...I don’t know. It’s prickly and uncomfortable and altogether too friendly. It’s one step forward and one to the left of pure lust. It’s what I’m coming to imagine is straight up Nox Casey. Dangerous. Surely he must have used this same look on me the first time we met. “Are you really single?”

“No.” He puts the glass on the coffee table and scoots forward. His knees are on either side of my legs. There are rips in his jeans, threadbare patches in the tight material around his muscular thighs.

“Didn’t think so. Liv tried to tell me you were, but...” I shake my head. Have to get back on track. “You’ll probably be relieved to have this behind you.”

“I don’t think you understand.” He reaches out and takes a hold of my hand, bringing it between us. “You might not wear the ring but married is married.”

“Until we’re divorced.”

“Until then.” He tugs me toward him, and I land on his knee. Déjà vu. Or is this similar to something I forgot? Warm blue eyes stare into me as he secures my position with one arm, but ugh, I’m not drunk enough to get lured in this time. “So we’ll talk to a lawyer tomorrow? File the paperwork? Be done with this?”

His fingers are cruising along my side. His other hand still holds my left hand as he moves his face closer to mine. Warm breath, and oranges blossom, and trees. He smells like sturdiness, and dependability, and nature. Christ, can a scent convey all that?

“Beck?” His mouth is wide, his tone hushed and musical. “Ever considered this so-called mistake we made might not be such a bad thing?”

“What?” I whisper. He is sheer animal magnetism. Does he know that?

He finally lets go of my hand and puts two fingers against the base of my jaw. The way his lips move is intoxicating to watch. “I’m not going to divorce you.”

“Mmm.” He’s not going to divorce me. It must be shock that makes it difficult to comprehend what those words mean. It takes me a moment to get it clear. “What?”

“I’m not going to divorce you, Beck Casey.”

I jump off his lap as though I’m in danger of being bitten by a venomous spider. “What do you mean you won’t...are you crazy?”

“Not crazy.” He scratches at the neat stubble on his chin.

“Then what? I don’t have any money. I don’t own any assets. You’re not going to get anything out of me if that’s what you’re hoping for.”

“Didn’t consider it,” he says, no deceit in his tone.

I stalk across the room to put some space between us. What the hell is his problem? What’s he hoping to achieve? “Y-you’re not some Neanderthal that thinks he can drag me back to his cave and I’m going to cook and clean and...”

“A girl like you?” His lip curls the tiniest amount. And what’s that supposed to mean? A girl like me? “Wouldn’t dream of it.”

“Then what? I’m not going to fall in... I won’t develop...”

“Love. Feelings,” he offers.

“Right. That.” A shiver runs up my spine. Just the thought of them tastes awful on my tongue.

“I don’t know, Mrs. Casey.” He climbs to his feet, spreading big hands on his thighs when he shrugs. “I think we ought to give this thing a shot. See what happens.”

“Divorce happens,” I fire back. My voice is rising. I’m practically shouting. Divorce happens. All the time. Or death. Nothing much else in life is certain. Those two are guaranteed. “And I don’t need you to agree to make it happen.”

“I suppose you don’t.” His expression grows serious, hard around the edges like it was earlier. He steps away from the couch.

“Let me show you out.” I march toward him, veer in the direction that will have him leaving my life again. The sooner the better. Opening the door, I hold it for him. “I’ll have my lawyer get in touch with you. That way we won’t have to see each other again.”

He stands there for a moment, his gaze flicking from me to the hallway beyond. Just leave already.

“Actually, I’m good right here.” He puts a hand behind his back and my mind overlays it with him taking his shirt off. The way he’d grabbed the collar and pulled it up over his back, those shoulder muscles stretching fluidly. Those pectoral muscles tensing and then relaxing. The tattoo with those words about taking life on like a beast. Only it’s not memory. He’s shirtless, the cotton dangling from his fist.

“What are you doing?” I march back toward him.

I’ll push him out the door if I have to, shirt or no shirt. My hands are on his skin before I have time to plan this through properly. Thick, corded muscle bunches and releases under my palms, but doesn’t budge. The man is an oak; tall, proud, unmovable.

He stares down at me with that twisted half smile. God, if I could wipe that expression straight off his gorgeous face...Or at least if he could stop looking at me like he’s hungry and I’m a Kobe steak. It’s been a long time. A really long time. Two years almost. Twenty-one months to be exact.

Rugged arms, well-developed and bronzed, probably from some sort of outdoor labor, surround me. Big hands grip my hips, more intently this time, holding me still. “You might want to stop pushing me, or I might take it to mean you like touching me.”

“I don’t,” I say, slightly out of breath from trying to move something so immovable.

“Didn’t like it that night we spent together either, did you?” He peers at me a little too close for comfort, like he’s trying to see something more than I’m showing.

And okay, he’s gorgeous, and I have a thing for a great set of arms. I mean a phenomenal pair of arms. Perfect, corded forearms, sculpted from marble biceps, shoulders you could park a Coupe de Ville on. And his hold on me is spreading warmth into all the parts of my body that I’ve ignored and put a lock on. Because of him. Because I married him. Even though I didn’t mean to, and it meant less than nothing. What’s even more less than nothing? It meant that.

Still. I tug on my lip with my teeth and take a deep breath, which might be a mistake since his scent makes saliva pool in my mouth. And now my panties need changing, not that he needs to know.

“You were something.” Is his voice rusty with desire, or am I imagining it? “Eager. Demanding. You couldn’t get enough. You’re one of my favorite memories.”

“I don’t remember.” It’s not a lie. No matter how hard I try, there are parts I will never recall.

“I can fix that.” He drops his face closer to mine, and now all I can see is his wide sensual lips and that small dimple in the right corner where they crease. Boy, he knows how to bring back what I do remember. “I could kiss you like I did that night. If you wanted me to.”

Maybe I do want him to. Just to see what all the fuss is about. I must nod, because his eyes get bluer. If that’s even possible. Those firm weights brush along my lips, and I get a little lost in the sensation and the solidness of his kiss and the way the tip of his tongue touches my bottom lip.

“No.” I push both hands into his chest, which only serves to keep him where he is while I take a step back. “No, this isn’t what we’re doing here.”

“It could be.”

“Don’t try to confuse me.” Why can’t he just agree? To cancel our marriage. To get out of my hotel room. “Why are you being difficult? Why won’t you go along with this?” I can hear the desperation rising in my voice. “It shouldn’t matter to you.”

“Well, Beck Casey—”

“It’s Beck,” I snip. “Or Beckett, or if you insist on using my full name, Beck McClain. It isn’t Beck Casey. It will never be Beck Casey.”

“Fine. Beck.” He practically rolls his eyes, like my discomfort amuses him. “You can go ahead and start the proceedings. And sooner or later you’ll get your wish. But until then I’m going to stay right here. See what happens.”

“You can’t.”

“See that’s the beauty of marriage, Beck. I can.” He glances around, notices the open door to the bedroom. “Now if you don’t need me for anything else, babe, I’m exhausted.”

“Don’t you dare.” I grip his arm to stop him from marching into the bedroom. “I’ll call hotel security. The police. My lawyer.”

He glances at the somewhat ineffectual hold I have on his arm. “You go ahead and do that. I’ll wait.”

Is he for real? I guess so, since he wanders into the bedroom, drops his shirt on my floor, and flops onto his back amidst the tangled covers and my clothes that I left out when I tried to work out what to wear for this evening’s simple conversation. Easy, yeah right!

Legs hanging over the edge, he kicks off his shoes and shuts his eyes, resting one hand under his head. The other pops the button on his jeans and undoes his zip about an inch. I catch my breath. Is he really going to make this situation even more uncomfortable than it already is? He wouldn’t be that perverted, would he? Sliding his fingers into the top of them, he stills, exhales, and relaxes.

I should be relieved that he didn’t get naked, but I’m almost disappointed. Such a pretty man. Ugh, that’s the last thing that should be on my mind. Such an obstinate prick.

He can’t stay here. I storm across the room and pull on a pair of ballet flats before walking out of the suite and directly to Liv’s door. Bang. Bang. Bang. The nerve of him, telling me he won’t end this sham of a marriage then falling asleep in my bed. The absolute nerve. “Liv, open up.”

Nothing.

My palm starts to sting from slamming it against her door. She’ll know what to do with him. She’s better at dealing with the opposite sex than I am. “Liv, come on. I need your help.”

Silence.

Turning around, I collapse against her door and slide to a crouch on the carpet. My chest is heaving, I’m so worked up. I should go down and get hotel security. Or call the cops. They’d be able to evict him from my suite. But what would I say when he told them he’s my husband? He hasn’t done anything other than annoy me. There’s probably nothing the police can do without a court order. Which leaves my family lawyer, the same lawyer that orchestrated my parent’s divorce and my mother’s subsequent splits from husbands two through four before she retired from the husband games. I pull out my phone and make the call.

“Nine months? Are you freaking kidding me?” I’m not yelling, but my voice is strained as I plop onto my butt in the hallway. I can’t begin to wrap my mind around being stuck with this guy for nine months, which is what my lawyer is suggesting might be the case if Nox Casey refuses to do the decent thing.

“Ms. McClain, can I suggest you calm yourself? That’s only one scenario. It could take less or more, but without the other party’s consent it will take time. If you could somehow convince him to agree, you would be looking at a more favorable timeline.”

“How long?” I stare at the black ballet flat with miniature cherries on my right foot, and the navy and white striped flat on my left. This was meant to be easy.

“Six weeks, more or less. Sometimes these things can take up to three months, but since there’s no assets to divide, no family home, or children it’s a fairly straight forward process.”

“And you are certain I can’t get a judge to declare this marriage invalid?”

“It’s always a possibility with the right judge, but you might not be that lucky, and again, it would take time. If you’re serious about dealing with this as quickly and efficiently as possible I would suggest you find a way to convince your husband that he wants this as much as you do.”

“Thanks.” I hang up on him, dropping my hand holding my phone to the floor beside me. I’m screwed. In hot water. Stuck with this jackass for who knows how long. Maybe not that long... My stomach flips. No, the curse is bullshit. I wouldn’t even be thinking about it if Liv hadn’t bought it up.

My phone rings. Liv’s name comes up on the screen. I drag it to my ear. “Liv, thank God. I need your help. Where are you?”

“Out for the night,” she says. “What’s the matter? Date not going well?”

“It’s not a date.”

“Damn girl, no need to scream in my ear.”

“He’s refusing to end it. He won’t leave. He’s probably fast asleep on my bed right now.”

“And where are you?”

“In the hallway.” I lower my voice. “In front of your door.”

“Oh sweetie.” She clucks. “I’m not coming back tonight.”

“Oh. I was hoping I could stay in your room until I work out how to kick him out. Maybe I could ask the concierge to let me in?”

“Maybe,” she says tentatively, like she’s holding something back. “But I’d rather you didn’t. Besides that isn’t going to solve your problem.”

“What? Did you have something to do with this?” What am I asking? Liv isn’t involved in this. She knows how much I hate this situation. I slump even lower, curl my knees up to my chest. “I’m sorry. Of course you wouldn’t.”

“Oh no, I would,” she says. “If I thought it would do you any good.”

“Very funny.” I stare at the long strip of white ceiling above me.

“Look, I think you should march right back into your own room and deal with the problem. Perhaps sleep with it. Might make things appear better in the morning.”

“Sleep with him? That’s your advice?”

“Well that’s your wifely right. It would be a shame to waste it,” she teases. “Seriously though, have you called the cops?”

“I called my lawyer.”

“And what did he say?”

“I’m screwed.” I rub my hand across my face vigorously. This isn’t me. I’m not one to let a problem hold me down. Time to pull myself together. “I’m stuck with him until we’re divorced. And that will take longer with him refusing to get on board.”

“Then you need to get him on board. Did he say what he wanted? Is he after money or anything?”

“I don’t think so. I told him I had none.”

“Is it possible he likes you?”

“Oh come on, Liv, we’re practically strangers.”

“You’re right. That’s a ridiculous notion, isn’t it? Beckett McClain would never be enticing to the opposite sex for more than a quick romp.”

“When you put it that way...no, that’s not the point. What do I do?”

“Beats me. How about we talk it over when I get back tomorrow morning?”

“Thanks.” Not that it helps right now, while he’s stretched out in my bed, and I have nowhere to sleep. “I guess I’ll go back in. Settle on the sofa. Perhaps I might even get some work done, since I doubt I’ll be able to sleep knowing he’s there.”

“That a girl,” she encourages. “We’ll work out how to fix this. I promise.”

I pour another glass of wine. It’s dry and tastes like oak and it’s doing a surprisingly good job of getting me drunk. My laptop is open on the coffee table, the blue light from the screen illuminating the room. Writing an article on electropop circa 1980 isn’t holding my attention the way it usually would. Not while there’s a man asleep in my bed. How am I supposed to get rid of him?

Getting up, I stumble and stub my toe on the leg of the table. “Motherfreakingfucksticks.” Wine sloshes on the carpet and my shorts as I yank my throbbing foot into the air and lean on the arm of the couch until the pain starts to subside.

Then I freeze, waiting in anticipation. He couldn’t have slept through my cussing at the top of my lungs, surely. For a few minutes I stare at the door to the bedroom, but he doesn’t emerge. It would be silly of me not to check that he’s still asleep. I hobble over and lean in the door. It’s completely dark, except for the numbers on the clock by the bed. There’s nothing to see, no movement, no sound.

A crazy spark lit up between us when he touched me. If circumstances were different I’d probably be in bed with him right now. If I’d never met him before he’d probably have me pushed up against the wall while shoving his tongue in my mouth. If he wasn’t the biggest mistake of my life I’d most likely be watching him fuck me in the huge mirrors on the closet.

If circumstances were different I would have let him take this crazy electricity between us and... there’s no point letting my imagination wander any further. Whatever it is about him that gives me this weird sensation inside it’s still only base chemicals, like dopamine, oxytocin, and serotonin.

I stare into the depths of my wine as I head back to the couch. Not even those chemicals. Those ones make happiness. This is more like...a good dosing of testosterone and estrogen. Putting the glass down on the table I sit down and drag my laptop closer. I halve the size of my post and open up a new window to the women’s magazine I sometimes work for. I’m not one who believes in winning a man over in two weeks, or getting him to pop the question in thirteen steps or less. And I don’t need eight tips for achieving the best orgasm of my life, although that last one might hold some substance. But there are some articles I worked on... A section called Anti-Cupid that readers have flocked to over the last year.

I scroll through those posts now, searching for one in particular. A piece on pushing a man to his limits so he’ll show his true colors. It was so popular it spawned a monthly post with tips like: tell him you’re a fan of the smooth scrotum look while holding your flat iron. And ask him 100 times a day to tell you again and again and again why he loves you. Some of them are ridiculous or plain stupid, but in amongst them were some pearls.

I pick up my glass and raise it in salute to the sleeping man in my bedroom. You made the wrong move deciding to make this difficult, husband. I am going to screw you so hard. All the way to signing the damn paperwork that will finish this marriage.